Don’t look down, I told myself. Whatever you do, don’t look down. I looked down. It was a long, long way to the bottom.
I tried to move my hand. It wouldn’t move.
I tried to move my arm. It wouldn’t move.
I was scared and I was stuck.
What had I been thinking?
All this, just to see E Lee Marx before he left the country? Surely there were other more sensible ways I could’ve done this.
I wondered if I’d become some sort of adrenalin junkie, always looking to get my next fix.
Because of that I’d become delusional: I wasn’t thinking stuff all the way through, I was totally overestimating my capabilities.
Seb, who had already started moving again, stopped to look down at me.
‘You okay, Dom?’ he said.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I can’t seem to move.’
The song had ended and a new one had started, a slow song.
The amphitheatre was bathed in dark and people had their phone screens lit up, waving them in time to the music.
‘We’re almost there, mate,’ said Seb. ‘Just a few metres more.’
‘We are?’
‘No crap. It’s just a process, that’s all. Find a handhold. Find a foothold. Drag yourself up. Little by little. Loose as a goose on the juice.’
He was right: it was just a process. It was a goose. It was on the juice. It was loose.
Handhold. Done.
Foothold. Done.
Lift myself up.
Just a process.
Handhold. Done.
Foothold. Done.
Lift myself up.
And then I was on the top, straddling the Colosseum, the stars my headband.
The whole of Rome spread out in front of me, and down below, that heaving protoplasm. I felt a rush of pure emotion – excitement, triumph, thrill – that seemed to lift me up even higher.
It was Seb who brought me back down to earth.
‘Let’s get off this baby,’ he said.
‘Let’s.’
It was obvious what we had to do.
Just below the lip of the wall was a ledge. It was small but it looked solid enough to hold our weight.
So, holding on to the top, we made our way around this ledge, heading for the steps that would eventually take us down to the hypogeum.
Again the lasers swept back and forth over us.
Almost there, just a couple of metres to go.
The song ended and there was the usual tumult of applause.
Another laser swept by.
And another one.
A metre to go.
Another laser.
Except it didn’t sweep by.
It stopped right on me.
I looked to my left – a laser was focused on Seb.
We’d been spotlighted.
Down below, the crowd stopped cheering.
There were audible gasps.
And then a booming voice, Mick Jagger’s voice: ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a couple of gatecrashers, people!’
Seb started moving again, and so did I, but the lasers kept with us.
He finally reached the end of the ledge.
I hadn’t noticed before, but there was a two-metre gap between here and the stairs.
A gap that could only be traversed one way – by jumping.
Seb hesitated.
One part of me thought: Thank God, he’s human after all.
But another part thought: If he can’t do it, then how the hell can I?
The crowd was chanting. ‘Saltare! Saltare! Saltare!’
Seb looked back at me. Opened his mouth as if to say something but then seemed to think better of it.
He turned back, he crouched, and he jumped up and out.
It was soon pretty obvious that he’d misjudged it, that he’d gone too high.
That he was going to miss the stairs and drop to his death.
But somehow, mid-jump, he managed to change his trajectory.
His feet hit the edge of the stairs, but his momentum carried him forwards and onto the stairs. One roll before, catlike, he was back on his feet.
Huge applause from below.
My turn.
Seb beckoned with his hand – Come on, Dom.
Having learnt from his effort, I knew exactly what to do. I shuffled to the end of the ledge, I crouched, and I jumped. Not too high, I’d told myself.
It worked, and I nailed the landing, both feet hitting the stairs at the same time.
Even more applause from below.
And now I could see them coming from every direction: security guards, loping up the stairs towards us.
‘I’d say that’s the end of our gig,’ said Seb.
I scanned the Colosseum, my brain working hard. It was a bit like one of those Escher drawings that Miranda liked so much – which stairs went where? But I quickly worked out a possible escape route.
‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘Follow me.’
I ran down one set of stairs, taking them three at a time.
Then across onto another set.
Down another set.
The security guards were running all over the place, but I figured that as long as we stayed high and kept moving they’d have trouble zeroing in on us.
Across some more steps.
Now I could see it clearly: our one chance of avoiding capture.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘All the way down.’
Seb could see it too.
The security guards would have to go up and then across and then down to get to us.
We went flying down those stairs.
One wrong move and we were gone. Busted ankle, busted leg, busted life.
And then the stairs ran out.
We were on a small stage, which I guessed was where the emperor or the caesar would’ve sat to watch the spectacle below.
But there was no way out of here except the way we’d come.
I looked back.
A scrum of security guards was converging on us.
I looked down at the crowd, which was perhaps four metres below.
Somebody said something, and soon there was yelling, arms raised, fingers pointing, thrusting, at us.
I looked at Seb standing next to me.
‘You done much crowd-surfing?’
‘Hell yeah,’ he said.
We stood on the lip of the platform and adopted the crowd-surfer pose: chest out, arms up.
And as we did, arms reached up. They were ready for us.
Behind us arms reached out; the security guards were almost on us.
‘Let’s go!’
Seb and I dived off.
Not too deep, I kept reminding myself as I soared through the air.
And then oomph! the air was knocked out of my chest.
And double-oomph! I copped an accidental hand right in the knurries.
But then I was being passed along, people screaming stuff at me in Italian.
And then, when we were well away from the security guards, right in the thick of the crowd, they put us down and Seb and I became just like them, ticket-paying concertgoers.
I looked up – we were about two metres from the stage.
And I swear Mick Jagger, all ribs and wrinkles, winked at me as he launched into ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash. You’re a gas gas gas’.
After that was ‘Satisfaction’ and, though Mick apparently was having trouble getting any, I was feeling just about as satisfied as a human being can get, as this human being had ever got, anyway.
A couple more songs and then the obligatory encore.
When that was finished and the lights went on, people started streaming towards the exits.
Okay, what now?
I’d been so focused on getting into the gig, I hadn’t given much thought about getting backstage once I was here.
Once the crowd had thinned out, I could see that not everyone was leaving.
Some people, conspicuous by the
red passes dangling from their necks, were headed towards another door manned by two security guards.
After inspection of the passes they were let through the door.
Backstage, I reasoned, was on the other side of that.
‘What’s up?’ said Seb.
‘I have to get backstage,’ I said.
‘You have to?’ he said, hitting hard on the ‘have’.
‘Have to,’ I replied.
He looked around, scratched the side of his face a couple of times and then said, ‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
It was pretty much what I’d expected.
Seb was part of The Debt. The Debt really wanted me to do this. So that cardinal rule, nobody was allowed to help, had been done away with.
I was one of the few people left inside now and I figured that any minute I would be asked to leave.
Or maybe even be arrested if they recognised me as the gatecrasher.
There were no more people getting their passes checked before they went backstage.
I checked my watch.
It had been almost fifteen minutes since Seb had left, so I figured that whatever his plan had been, he’d failed.
I’d have to come up with something else.
What, I didn’t know. It felt right then that I’d pretty much run out of both motivation and imagination.
I looked over at the two security guards and one of them was showing the other something on his phone.
Could I bribe them?
But then I remembered that I didn’t actually have much cash left.
And if you’re going to go down the bribery path, it’s usually a good idea to have something to bribe with.
I could just hang outside and hope to get E Lee Marx as he came out.
Problem with that was I didn’t know where he would come out.
Or if he’d be taken somewhere directly by car.
So that wasn’t really a plan; that was just pure hope.
I could feel despair starting to claw at me.
And then the noise, a guitar on full volume, screeching.
My hands immediately went for my ears – it wasn’t just ear-splitting, it was brain-splitting, the sort of noise that would give you lifelong tinnitus.
Somebody stop that!
The two security guards were already running, trying to find out where this appalling racket was coming from.
Thank god, I thought. I was so relieved that they were going to stop this godawful noise that I didn’t take in the implications of this.
The two security guards!
Which meant that they’d abandoned their post and there wasn’t anybody guarding the door.
As they passed me I took off full-pelt in the opposite direction.
I tried the door. It was unlocked.
I pushed it and slipped through.
I’d done it: I was backstage at a Rolling Stones concert!
A very big hand clamped my shoulder.
The very big hand belonged to a very big man.
He was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, black boots, and he had a bald head that looked like it belonged on Easter Island.
‘Not so friggin’ fast, Sonny Jim,’ he said with an accent he’d borrowed from Hound de Villiers. ‘And, where do you think you’re going?’
‘Backstage?’ I suggested.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to – the look he gave me said it all – No, you’re not, Sonny Jim.
‘How the hell did you get this far anyway?’ he said.
You know what, I was getting pretty sick of men – mostly very big men – getting in my way.
‘If you must know, Sonny Jim, I climbed over the top of the friggin’ Colosseum,’ I said.
‘That was you?’ he said, and I could detect something else in his voice now.
‘Didn’t I just say it was me?’ I said.
‘And you did that because?’
Okay, I figured the truth, as good as it had been, wasn’t going to serve me any further.
‘Because it was always my father’s dream.’
‘To climb over the Colosseum?’
‘To see the Stones live.’
‘And, what, he didn’t have the balls to do it himself?’
‘He passed away,’ I said.
The bald man looked me in the eyes.
‘Kid, I’m not sure if you’re lying or not. But, hell, if you’re that desperate, then who am I to say no?’
Absolutely, I thought.
‘Hold your arms out, Sonny Jim.’
Sonny Jim held his arms out.
He frisked me, and then he pulled one of those red passes from his pocket and hung it around my neck.
‘If anybody asks you, Lem had nothing to do with it, okay?’
‘Okay, Lem,’ I said.
TUESDAY
BACKSTAGE
Not sure what I expected: maybe a whole lot of old people sitting around, sipping champagne, talking about all the stuff they did when they were young.
But it was actually a bit livelier than that.
Even if there were a whole lot of old people sitting around sipping champagne.
There were lots of photographers taking lots of photos.
And reporter types getting exclusive interviews.
But all this was wallpaper, because I had eyes for one person and one person only.
The person I couldn’t see.
I’d come all this way. I’d risked my life several dozen times. And he hadn’t even made the concert?
‘Dominic!’
I turned around.
It was Trace, dressed in a figure-hugging dress, looking rock’n’roll glam.
‘You made it?’ she said.
No, Trace, this is a hologram you see before you. Of course I bloody made it.
‘Your husband?’ I said.
‘Oh, he’s been talking up a storm with Keith!’ she said, and I could hear the lightness in her voice.
‘Do you think I should ask him about Yamashita’s Gold?’ I said.
‘Absolutely. Now would be the perfect moment,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
I followed Trace into another room.
There were five or six people sitting around on sofas.
Two of them I recognised.
E Lee Marx, of course. And Trace was right, he did look different, larger rather than smaller-than-life.
The other person was Keith Richards. Who actually looked a lot like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean.
And I had that same feeling I had before, that he must be a fraud, because people like me don’t get this close to famous types like him.
Trace said, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but Dom’s here. He came to see us at the compound, remember?’
E Lee Marx looked me up and down.
The world’s greatest treasure hunter!
So did Keith Richards.
Okay, the Rolling Stones were about ten million years old, but they were still the Rolling Stones and this was still Keith Richards and he was still looking me – me! – up and down.
‘You the stage diver, then?’ he said.
There was really no use denying it.
‘That was me,’ I said. ‘How’d it look from where you were?’
For a second I thought my joke had fallen flat, but then he smiled a lopsided smile, held out his hand and said, ‘Ten out of ten from the English judge, son.’
So I shook Keith Richard’s hand. As you do.
We talked a bit more about the mechanics of stage diving, and I thought this was as good a time as any.
‘Mr Marx?’ I said.
‘Yes?’ he replied.
‘Remember I was telling you about Yamashita’s Gold?’ I said. ‘How I had proof?’
E Lee Marx raised his eyebrows.
I looked over at Trace – she smiled encouragingly at me.
I reached into my pocket and brought out the Double Eagle and handed it to E Lee Marx.
&
nbsp; He took it, weighed it in his hand.
He gave a sort of nod of approval – obviously it was the proper weight.
He took out a one-euro coin and gave the Double Eagle a rap with it.
There was a resultant ding!
Another nod of approval – obviously it sounded right.
Then he looked at it closely.
When he’d finished he handed the coin back to me, an enigmatic smile on his lips.
‘It’s a fake,’ he said. ‘A very good one, but a fake nonetheless.’
‘How do you know?’ I said.
‘Not many people are aware of this, but the real 1933 Double Eagle has got a black eye,’ he said.
Eva Carides, Numismatist, my fat butt!
Technically, I guess you could say that I fainted.
The blood drained from my face, my blood pressure plummeted and I crumpled onto the floor. And when I came to, that’s certainly the term everybody was throwing around.
As in, ‘Can we have some water here, this poor boy has fainted.’ And, ‘Dom, do you faint very often?’
But I knew that it was no faint, it was my body’s way of saying No!
Had I really swapped the real thing for a phoney?
Well, according to E Lee Marx, the world’s greatest marine archaeologist, I had. And that was good enough for me.
WEDNESDAY
BACK TO LAKE NEUCHTEL
E Lee Marx was leaving for the States tomorrow at six in the evening.
I had no time to lose.
I had to get back to Switzerland tonight.
I got out my iPhone, brought up the Skyscanner app. There were no more ROM-GEN flights tonight, and the earliest one I could get a ticket on tomorrow wasn’t until the afternoon – not enough time.
I brought up Google Maps. Typed in Rome to Neuchâtel.
There were nine hundred and fifty-seven kilometres between them, a distance that would supposedly take nine hours and four minutes to drive.
But Google Maps was a pretty slow driver, I reckoned.
And I knew somebody who wasn’t.
And what’s more, he was for hire.
I called Antonio and twenty minutes later the pimpmobile pulled up outside Oppio Café.
‘Neuchâtel?’ queried Slim when I got into the front seat.
I nodded, and showed him exactly where I wanted to go on my iPhone.
‘Pourquoi?’ he said.
My French wasn’t up to explaining why. And certainly not my Italian. Actually, I didn’t think even my English was up to explaining why.
Fetch the Treasure Hunter Page 18
